


The broken man

by Sierra Roo (SoySierra)



Series: Temptation and punishment [2]
Category: The Last Kingdom (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 10:20:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25349125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoySierra/pseuds/Sierra%20Roo
Summary: "Well, where is he?""Sorry, my Lord."For a few seconds he says no more, as if searching in his head for the right words. "He was not feeling very well ..""Is he wounded, Father Beocca? According to your own words, when Uhtred arrived in Winchester, he had not been seriously injured."The annoyance in Alfred's voice is noticeable. Beocca closes his eyes, imprisoned by his own speech. The discomfort increasing every minute."No, my lord. It is not physical injuries that afflict him. It is something different .."After his days as a slave, Uhtred returns to Winchester. Nothing is the same. Alfred must collect the pieces from a broken man.(This can be read as a previous part of "temptation and punishment" )
Relationships: Alfred the Great/Uhtred of Bebbanburg
Series: Temptation and punishment [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1939432
Comments: 32
Kudos: 53





	1. Missing

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my native language, so sorry if you find mistakes! As always, if you are there and you want to send me love, I will be super grateful!

“Well, where is he?”

It is a simple question. Direct. There is no possibility of further interpretation. It cannot generate the suspense and discomfort it generates in the old priest, and yet it does. Beocca shifts restlessly in place, unconsciously holding the cross to his chest with one of his hands. Alfred knows what that means. He knows that the gesture in him only appears when he has bad news.

“Sorry, my Lord.” For a few seconds he says no more, as if searching in his head for the right words.

“He was not feeling very well ... “

“Is he hurt, father Beocca? According to your own words, when Uhtred arrived in Winchester, he had not been seriously injured.”

The annoyance in Alfred's voice is noticeable. Beocca closes his eyes, imprisoned by his own speech. The discomfort increasing every minute.

“No, my lord. It is not physical injuries that afflict him. It's something different ..”.

“Father Beocca.”

He had been patient, too patient. But everything had a limit. It would not be the first time that Uhtred disobeyed a direct order. Although, in theory, he had ceased to be his oathman, the fact that he did not appear before him after he mobilized his forces to save him was interpreted as a great lack of respect. His childish behavior could not be infinitely tolerated.

“It's been a week. He should have paid his respects that same day. I can understand that being enslaved is an overwhelming experience, so I have given him time ...”

“My Lord, I assure you that this is not an act of rebellion ...” Beocca tries again, but is instantly interrupted.

“My tolerance has a limit. Uhtred needs to report himself to the palace immediately. If he has not any physical injury, then there are no more reasons that justify his childish behavior.”

Beocca seems to be having a tumultuous internal struggle. For a second, Alfred sense that he wants to speak again, but he stops at the last minute. His education and loyalty to his king, winning over his eternal need to defend the young Danish. With a short bow, he greets him before quickly leaving the place.

Alfred sighs, leaning on the throne. He was sick of being taken as a fool. Uhtred would always have that tendency. Rebellious, challenging. He didn't care how much he had put himself at risk as king by freeing a Viking leader, a valuable prisoner, to go in search of him. How many times had he asked for his well-being in his prayers, how many sleepless nights had he spent imagining the horrors of his captivity.

When he heard of his return to Winchester, Alfred could not help but have the unstoppable desire to see him. To verify with his own eyes that he was alive. To share the same physical space even if they never returned to ...

No. Those were their weaknesses. He had to fight them. The only thing that mattered now was that the Dane owed the King of Wessex a great favor. Nothing else.

*

Beocca enters the hut as he can. Dodge the clutter, the overturned chairs, the kitchen utensils, the remains of hay, furs and blankets scattered everywhere. With apprehension he notices the amber jewel, so representative of Uhtred's sword, peeking out from under a pile of straw.

The priest carefully removes the sword from the place where it has been forgotten. He shakes it a little and then rests it on one of the few platforms that are still standing. Absurdly, he finds himself apologizing with the weapon for the actions of its owner.

Ultimately, Uhtred's behavior oscillated between furious fits of anger followed by prolonged periods of lethargy in which he barely got out of bed. The food, which both he and Hild brought him, invariably piling up at the door where it was deposited.

If Uhtred continued that behavior ...

The scenario was too horrible for him just to think about it.

Beocca enters the room like a fury. This time, the period of lethargy was taking too long. Honestly, he preferred a furious Uhtred over that ghostly version of himself.

"Uhtred, boy!" He yells at the figure sheltered under the furs. "Enough of this!"

With a jerk, he takes away the makeshift shelter revealing a ghost of what used to be the skilled and confident Viking warrior. He had lost considerable weight during his captivity, and refusing to eat only accentuated his malnutrition. Messy hair, empty gaze. Beocca can't help but feel anguish press through his chest at the sight of his beloved Bebbanburg boy in that deplorable state.

“Uhtred, the king has been too patient with you. You can not continue that way. Tomorrow you will get up from there and pay your respects.”

Uhtred remains motionless in the place. He has not complained about the sudden deprivation of the fur that covered him. Stare at the ceiling. Beocca seriously doubts that his words will be heard.

“If you do not want him to come here to see what you have become.”And with this, miraculously, he sees that there is something that comes to life in Uhtred's gaze, so he continues in that plan.

“Oh yeah! Because he will! Alfred from Wessex would be perfectly capable of come here in person to make you obey.”

Beocca is not so sure about this. Alfred used to abide by protocols, although in the case of Uhtred he had already shown that he did not always do what should be done. However, he put those thoughts away. The only important thing was that Uhtred believed it real for it to work.

"So you already know, until you go to the king who has saved you, I will not come back here. If letting yourself die is what you truly want, I cannot go against your decision.”

Beocca leaves as fast as he can before Uhtred can see the tears filling his eyes. Secretly, he prayed to God that the king would be able to get him out of that personal hell.

*

Although it's a gray day, the glare blinds him. Uhtred closes his eyes in discomfort. Too many days of confinement, his eyesight needs to get used to the clarity again.

He forces himself to start the march despite the strong need to return to his refuge. The prospect of Alfred breaking into his home demanding answers had transformed into a new kind of humiliation that he no longer felt capable of tolerating. For that alone, he was fighting his demons to satisfy the king. Only for that.

The voices, the crowd of the city walking around him, the fetid smells, the hooves of the horses, close very close ..

“Hey, watch out!” The owner of a horse cart shouts at him. His steps are awkward, insecure. He feels sick, dizzy. Lack of food creating that weakness. He feels nauseous, he must stop to vomit. Is it a bad idea. The liquid burns his throat making him cough.

The desire to return where he came from, this time is much stronger. Uhtred stands on the wall of a cabin. From where he is, he is able to visualize the palace. There is not much left and yet he feels as if an abyss is opening between him and the structure.

Facing the King of Wessex suddenly becomes a titanic task. Gone are the days when he burst into the palace rooms like a storm. Today he only begged to be able to gather the strength to cross the meters that separated him from the entrance. At that thought, an irrepressible fury reaches him. Was that what he had been reduced to? Was he that fearful and insecure being?

Uhtred forces himself to put one foot in front of the other. He ignores the trembling in his hands, the weakness of his legs and the fact that the ground seems to be moving under his feet.

The guards at the entrance do not recognize him. He does not blame them. He doesn't recognize himself either. They take a while which become eternal until they manage to find someone who can verify his identity.

Father Beocca meets him with a big smile that quickly erases from his face. He does not want to give more importance to the matter. He doesn't want to hurt his pride by considering his presence in the palace as a great achievement. It is not his wish but Uhtred can see beyond his actions.

The palace is as dark and gloomy as ever. Judging by the route they take, Alfred is in the library. Beocca has been talking to him the whole way but he has not been able to listen. His heart pounding and the growing tremor in his hand, absorbing his full attention.

*

He is so focused on evaluating the length of the candles he needs for the day of remembrance, that he does not perceive their presence until Beocca announces it.

Without being able to avoid it, the vision of Uhtred, after so many months without seeing each other, produces a mixture of emotions difficult to decipher. One prevails over the others: relief. Seeing Uhtred whole, standing, walking on his own, reveals to him that he had unconsciously disbelieved Beocca's words. He discovers that he had feared that the priest was trying to hide a terrible truth and that the warrior was prostrated and somehow impeded.

However, that gives way to another emotion: Anger. Not only towards Uhtred's insolence but also towards himself when he perceived himself incapable of making the pagan stop having the importance that he had in his life.

“You've taken your time.” Alfred greets him, refocusing his attention on his candles. “I trust that you are recovered”

A few seconds pass. For a brief moment, Alfred is sure he hasn't been heard until Uhtred responds with a tense "Lord". Strangeness makes its way into the king's mind, but he does not feel capable of understanding what is out of place.

“What do you think of my candles?”

Again the silence. A silence that at first he had taken as a challenge but that little by little is becoming something more.

"They are fine." The warrior replies with a voice so unlike him that it seems to come from someone else.

There is no instant reply, sarcastic comment. This sets off an alarm on the king. Something strange happens.

Alfred watches him, really watches him. The thinness, the scruffy clothes, the dirty and frizzy hair. The tremor in his right hand is caught before Uhtred can hide it behind his back. All this ,gives him information that accumulates as a solid weight in his stomach. Unconsciously, he places his hand to his belly even though the discomfort he feels doesn't come directly from his body.

“Ragnar has proven to be a man of his word. My intention is to release him.”

Faced with this revelation, something in the Danish posture changes, the shoulders briefly relaxing.

“It is very generous, Lord.”

This time the response is instantaneous. Alfred tells himself that this leaden feeling is just an illusion. So he decides to continue.

"However, I must say that I would like you to become part of my army again. You are a great warrior and your sword would be very useful to the kingdom of Wessex.”

His words have an unusual effect. Instead of enlarging his ever-haughty ego and puffing up his pride, they do the exact opposite. It is as if he is suddenly being convicted of an abominable crime. Uhtred seems to shrink in place. The trembling in his hand being so noticeable that it moves his arm even when it is hidden behind his back.

“I can not.”

It is as if time is running out. An icy certainty is present in the king's mind. That makes him fear the worst.

"Sir!" Beocca interrupts now, unable to contain himself. He has remained listening their brief exchange without saying a word, but his nervousness has been notorious. Alfred understands his reaction.

“I am sorry to interrupt, but it is necessary that you give your opinion in relation to the passage that will be recited this afternoon.”

Alfred nods, momentarily, emerging from his stupor. His mind working like a fine gear machine. He dismisses Uhtred without further delay, summoning him for the next day.

Later, while he is witnessing the festivity, he will put the puzzle pieces in order. That will make the strangeness of the exchange with Uhtred make sense. He will notice that the first hint was given from the beginning, when he did not feel his presence in the room. A presence that used to fill each room and that interrupted with the force of a tide their meetings ... It was missing.

His excessive self-confidence, his haughtiness, his insolence were missing ...

But more fundamentally, and with this he cannot prevent his concern from transforming into a real pang of pain in his belly ...

His gaze was missing.

Since he had returned, Uhtred has not once looked at him.

To be continue...


	2. Reunion

Uhtred puts everything he can in a messy package that he wraps with one of the furs. His hands tremble so much that even that simple task is difficult. His mind is a whirlwind of emotions, his body seems to boil with sensations that flood his senses, leading him to an inevitable conclusion: escape. The air is elusive. He runs out of time, he must escape from Winchester, from Alfred. He is heading towards the door when ...  
  
“You forget this.” Hild is in the door frame holding his sword. The light from outside, giving her a mystical allo.  
  
"I don't need it," he replies annoyed at the prospect of having to deal with her. His mind focused on one thing only: escape. The air was running out.  
  
"Where are you going?" Hild does not withdraw from the door frame. With horror Uhtred understands that she will not do it until she gets her answers and that leaves him with only one alternative.  
  
The blow to his stomach is hard enough to knock him out of air, this time for real. Uhtred bends to the ground trying to do his best to control himself. In desperation he has tried to push the nun away, but he has not counted on her agility and his own weakness. Hild has proved once again that she could not be taken lightly.  
  
“You can't run away from yourself, Uhtred.” She says gently.  
  
"Believe me, I tried. But it's useless." She squats down beside him, brushing a few strands of the Dane's messy hair.  
  
He watches her for a moment, suddenly remembering the traumatic situation in which they met. Instantly, an unstoppable shame assails him at his actions. He feels lost. She is right. He knows. He is aware that running away makes no sense. He must face this. But it is so painful. What Alfred needs, what Alfred asks ...  
  
Slowly, he snuggles up to Hild's body. She receives him as a mother to her son. She waits until Uhtred can compose himself. There is something in their relationship that will always be that way.  
  
*  
  
The place where Alfred stores all his writings is almost in shadows. The scribes have left, leaving only he and Steapa in the place. Alfred is sitting at a long table behind a pile of scrolls of all kinds.  
  
Uhtred does not understand the king's intentions by having summoned him so late in the night. For long minutes, he watches his quill move swiftly on the paper. There is a certain magnetism in him when he is concentrated on those kinds of tasks. A magnetism that never failed to attract the Danish's attention. As if somehow Alfred was able to create a certain magic in that room that he would never be capable of.  
  
“Uhtred” He greets him at last. Uhtred straightens his posture, that distressing sensation turning a bitter taste in his throat. He knows what Alfred needs from him, he has already asked him the day before and he will do it again: command his armies. He will insist again.  
  
"Have a seat, please," he indicates, gesturing with his hand towards the opposite bench.  
  
Uhtred quickly obeys. The fear that his legs will stop holding him at any moment, like a reality too present. Alfred continues writing a few more seconds, until he finally places the quill inside the inkwell. Uhtred does not take his eyes off the huge number of manuscripts that populate the table.  
  
"I have been informed that you are aware of my daughter Aethelfled's inminent marriage to the Lord of Mercia."  
  
He is not. But he nods anyway. It is highly likely that Beocca mentioned it to him at some point, but he has no record of that. Alfred nods.  
  
“As you know, a royal wedding requires a great deal of preparations. Invitations are one of them ...”  
  
Alfred continues speaking. Uhtred narrows his eyes, letting himself be carried away by that soft and subdued voice. There have been too many days at sea, with memories of the king's voice as the only consolation.   
  
“So, that's what I need you to do.” Alfred concludes after a moment and for a second Uhtred feels that he has lost his mind again and is in one of his delusions.  
  
“Lord?”  
  
“The scribes are busy doing the kingdom records so I need all the help I can to write these invitations. I understand that it is a reasonable request, after having saved your life.”  
  
Alfred watches him raising an eyebrow. His smart, sharp gaze, almost turning dark in the candlelight. Uhtred has a hard time getting out of his confusion. The king takes advantage of that to place a paper and a quill in front of him.  
  
“Father Beocca told me that he had instructed you when you were a child, so you will write what I say.” And so, without further delay, Alfred begins to dictate to him.  
  
*  
  
Uhtred leaned over the scroll, his hair almost completely hiding his face. Alfred recites the words at a reasonable speed for someone who doesn't have regular contact with writing, but Uhtred still doesn't seem to be able to keep up.  
  
Alfred notes that the Danish right hand is trembling again. It started as a slight shudder, but with the passing of seconds it has become something impossible to ignore. Uhtred drops the quill and grabs it with his left hand in an attempt to control himself. His breathing has become heavy, tortuous.  
  
Alfred stops the dictation. Sighing, he stands up and with a sign of his head, dismisses Steapa. The huge warrior holds his gaze a few seconds before leaving them alone. Uhtred has not witnessed this, too focused on being able to contain the tide of emotions that torture his mind. Alfred surrounds the table.  
  
"May I?" He asks once he's standing next to the Dane.  
  
Uhtred's shudder at his question is too noticeable. As if somehow he was expecting a blow from the king because he was unable to do a task as simple as writing. The discomfort that this revelation generates in Alfred, causes him to unconsciously tighten the fabric that covers his belly.  
  
Uhtred nods. Alfred takes a seat next to him. With slow movements, as if he was in the presence of a frightened horse, he takes the previously discarded quill, places it for a moment in the inkwell, and then places it on the scroll. Uhtred, who still does not feel able to look him in the eye, follows all his movements carefully.  
  
“Give me your hand.”  
  
Uhtred doubts. The king's tone is gentle. But still, something inside him related to trust in his environment seems to have been ripped apart in his days of captivity. He must repeat to himself, that the one next to him is Alfred. That he wouldn't hurt him. At least, not in that way.  
  
Alfred receives his hand in his. Uhtred closes his eyes. Their skins making contact has been a recurring fantasy for so long, he has a hard time believing this time to be real. The touch of his skin is warm, delicate and transports his mind to pleasant moments.  
  
Gently, Alfred brings his hand up to the scroll, placing the quill between his fingers again. The tremors have lost some of their intensity but are still noticeable. In a slow voice, he resumes his dictation, but this time, with his hand guiding Uhtred's writing.  
  
At first, the young danish seems somewhat confused by his actions. But then, he lets himself be carried away by the king's voice and his assistance. The words on the page appear slowly, sloppy, oscillating, fragile. But they do. Uhtred feels an exaggerated joy when the first line made together appears in front of his eyes.  
  
After long minutes, the letter is finished. Of course, it is far from the neat prolixity of the king's calligraphy, but it is readable. Uhtred feels a small wisp of confidence grow inside him. It's hardly a faint reflection of what his usual personality used to be but it's something and he clings to it with all his will. After so long, a hint of a smile appears on his features.  
  
"A quill can be as sharp as a sword." Alfred states after a moment, his attention on the manuscript they have just written together.  
  
"When the right words are written." He ends, looking up and with great pleasure he sees that Uhtred holds his gaze.  
  
Alfred can notice the new scars on the Danish's face, the vestiges of the trauma experienced in his gaze. It is the first time that they can see each other face to face after so many months of separation.  
  
It would be a pleasant reunion, if it weren't because that forbidden thing that they have tried to keep at bay, appears again in all its intensity.  
  
Alfred looks away.  
  
“You will return at the same time tomorrow.”  
  
To be continue..


	3. Air

Then, from one moment to the next, his days are transformed in the strangest way. From black days of torture, deprivation and despair on the slave ship, they later morphed into heavy gray days of fury and sadness in Winchester, to this ..

He doesn't even know what to call them. Sadness and fury are still on his mind, but now his days have something different. Just a little difference. A few hours, to be exact. A few hours of his days suddenly take on another color. He could not say that they are totally gray because other colors have begun to appear. Like those sunsets in Bebbanburg, where suddenly flashes of oranges and violets seemed to challenge the monochromatic skies.  
  
He can't deny Alfred's role in all of this. Uhtred is not naive. He knows deep down that the king has sought the excuse of the invitations to give him a purpose, to help him rebuild something of himself. He is aware that Alfred knows about his inability to hold his sword again, that they have finally been able to break him and still ...

He does not feel humiliated by his help. He does not perceive that the king feels sorry for him and his unfortunate circumstances. On the contrary, it is as if help him was something that Alfred also needed. As if the bond they forged had never been undone after leaving Winchester.  
  
Every day, shortly after sunset, going to the palace is no longer a deeply feared scene. Sharing those moments with Alfred, even if he is carrying out such a trivial task like writing in a parchment, gives his days a quietness and predictability that are pleasantly welcome.  
  
*  
  
It is a winter night, outside it has begun to snow. The heat from the fireplace is insufficient to ward off the cold. Uhtred's hands are cold and numb. He cannot believe how the monarch spends so much time in that place without freezing.  
  
Suddenly, in a quick movement, Alfred tears apart the invitation recently written by the Danish.  
  
“Write it again.” It's all he says, before turning his attention to his own parchments.  
  
Uhtred feels the outrage growing rapidly within him. His calligraphy had improved considerably after that first attempt. He no longer needed the king's assistance to write, but was still far from perfect.  
  
“I can't write the way you do, you know perfectly well that this is not my thing ...”  
  
Alfred doesn't even deign to look at it.  
  
“It is not your calligraphy that worries me, but your spelling. You have mistaken the name of the town, so you must rewrite it.”  
  
Uhtred feels out of place. Really? They were going to freeze if they stayed in that place too long and Alfred wanted him to rewrite that invitation just for a little spelling mistake.  
  
“My spelling? Most of the people who live in your kingdom cannot read. Do you think that the few who do, do care about these things?”  
  
"It matters to me." Says Alfred, slightly raising his eyebrow at his protest.  
  
“Incredible!” The Danish sighs but still takes another parchment and begins to write.  
  
Alfred watches him secretly amused. Uhtred taking so long without making any of his usual tantrums was something that had worried him too much. Slowly, he began to be himself.  
  
"I must confess that I have missed your childish insolence."  
  
He says it without thinking. That was not the comment that should come out of his mouth. This was equivalent to saying that he had missed him, that he had thought of him during his absence. Alfred scolds his stupidity. For an irrational second, he had forgotten that he had to be careful about their relationship. That he should not be carried away by his impulses.  
  
It was already done. His comment had been heard and now Uhtred was smiling at him. For a second, the arrogant self-confident Viking returns to the scene. For just a second, it looks like he's going to reply with one of his shrewd comments, but he regrets at the last moment.  
  
Alfred is not sure if his sudden change of heart is due to him not being himself again, or if on the contrary, he also fears what might happen again between them if he lets himself go.  
  
*  
  
Ragnar enters the throne room. His watchful gaze, his posture tense, as if somehow expecting an attack any minute now. An intelligent man, Alfred thinks.  
  
“Lord Ragnar.” He receives him standing up. Beside him, Beocca and Steapa watch him closely.  
  
“You have successfully carried out the task entrusted to you, which is why it is my duty to reward your act with your freedom.”  
  
"Lord." Ragnar bows slightly. A hint of a smile beginning to appear on his features.  
  
“Nevertheless...”  
  
Alfred approaches him. A heavy silence stretching between the two.  
  
"I must say that it would have been appropriate to have taken the slavers prisoners to be duly judged by the Witan."  
  
Ragnar's outrage quickly transform his features. Alfred suddenly has the strange feeling that he is talking to Uhtred and not his brother.  
  
"Lord," he says, and his voice trembles at the attempt to control his emotions.  
  
“They were about to end his life. Taking them prisoners would have implied that they killed Uhtred.”  
  
Alfred raises his hand, stopping him. He does not want to antagonize him any more. Internally, he is pleased with him, but it is his duty to remind the Danes of who rules Wessex.  
  
“It was a merciful death, then. Being tried in Winchester would have yielded other results, no doubt. ”He gives him a meaningful look. His words suspended in the air.  
  
“You can leave, Lord Ragnar. You have earned your freedom.”  
  
There is a moment of confusion until Ragnar understands what the king has really wanted to tell him. It is only when he is leaving the palace that a smile finally appears on his features. Suddenly, he feels a strange and unexpected connection to the Saxon king. _The bastard had wanted to torture them._

* 

The sound of the waves, the salty air, the eternal swaying under his feet, the permanent nauseating sensation in his stomach that becomes one with dizziness and hunger.  
  
The slave ship again. The cold on his feet, the hardness of the oar wood on his blistered hands.  
  
The screams.  
  
No, it can't happen again ..  
  
Halig's screams ..  
  
They come from the bow. They can be heard over the waves, over the insults of the slavers, over his own sobs ..  
  
Halig's screams are getting weaker ..  
  
NO!  
  
He must row, he must row harder, even though his hands bleed, even though his muscles tremble with exhaustion and his strength is at the limit ..  
  
Halig´s screams have completely stopped ..  
  
He can no longer hear them ...  
  
HALIG!  
  
His hands tremble, he can't continue rowing, but Halig will die if he doesn't ...  
  
He will die and it will be his fault ..  
  
Again ..  
  
Again ..  
  
“Uhtred!”  
  
With a start he focuses again. He is in the palace, Alfred is in front of him, he has called him, they are writing invitations, his mind has played another trick on him, just that, just that ..  
  
He is not at sea.  
  
He is not at the sea.  
  
It is repeated in his head over and over as a prayer. His hands tremble so much that they have spilled the ink in all directions. The parchment is ruined.  
  
He needs air, the room has become small, oppressive. Although there is no one else but the two of them, Uhtred feels as if he is in a crowd. The air does not enter.  
  
He jumps to his feet and rushes to the window. He awkwardly opens the shutters that close it and breathes when the freezing cold of the night hits him right in the face. He feels his interior burn as he tries to absorb as much air as possible. 

He remains leaning on the windowsill for a time that is impossible to determine. Gradually he manages to calm down, but when he does, shame and humiliation take hold of him.  
  
Alfred.  
  
Alfred has witnessed everything. Undoubtdedly, he will believe he has completely lost his mind.  
  
Alfred who has helped him so far. Who has saved him from his captors and has sacrificed all those nights with him to help him regain some of his integrity..

Alfred, who has missed him in the time when they have been separated ...  
  
The anguish at his own weakness closes his throat. His eyes are wet. He doesn't want to cry, not there, certainly not in front of him. The desire to escape that seemed buried, return with renewed intensity.  
  
He finds himself gathering all his strength to turn around and get out of there when he feels a hand on his back. Uthred shudders. He hadn't noticed the king's closeness so far. Alfred doesn't say anything and that disturbs him even more. The monarch has always been skillful with words but now he reserves them.  
  
“I can't command your armies!” He shouts suddenly and his words sound like an insult. Anger towards himself and his situation projecting into the only person who is there with him.  
  
Alfred responds nothing to this. His hand is still in contact with him. This angers him even more. That is not their relationship. He is used to never being enough for him, to always be criticized for his actions, even when they benefit the king in one way or another. That silence is overwhelming. He needs something, he needs some response, anger, reproach, frustration, something that fills that horrible emptiness he feels.  
  
"I can't hold a quill, much less a sword! They did it! I'm broken! I am no longer a warrior, there's no point in me being here, I shouldn't have survived, no ..!"  
  
The shock ends his desperate speech. At first he does not understand. He does not understand what is happening, since his body sends him signals that are elusive to interpret. He feels surrounded, restrained, contained ...  
  
Alfred ..  
  
It's a hug, he finally understands. Alfred remains without saying a word but hugs him from behind and that releases something inside him. Some strange mechanism that makes him hold, finally ends up failing and breaking into pieces. The cry comes out of his throat like a demon released after a long confinement. Uhtred takes Alfred's hands in his, grasps them like they're the only thing that still keeps him alive.  
  
Alfred has not trusted his voice. Words could be dangerous between the two of them. Internally, he wishes Uhtred's pain didn't echo with a part of himself. That the Danish's anguish was not reflected in his own feelings. That he was able to seeing him like just another server, a loyal but expendable warrior ...  
  
But he can't.  
  
To be continue..


	4. Broken

It is not exactly emptiness what he feels. It is not that silence devoid of meaning, that overwhelming loneliness stemming from a pain too unique which has accompanied him until then. It is something more ...  
  
A surprising and indefinite stillness has been installed in him since the day he fall apart in front of the king. As if some kind of mist had descended like a blanket between him and his emotions. There is no longer fury or despair.

  
He has started eating at regular intervals. There are even nights when he feels stronger enough to dine with Beocca or Hild. The two usually fill the silence with their conversations and that pleases him.  
  
His hands hardly tremble anymore. In moderation, he has begun trying to train with his sword. He finds it heavy after so long and his movements are incredibly awkward. But to his fortune, Finnian has turned out to be a companion with infinite patience. Both must relearn how to position themselves as warriors, so training is mutually helpful. His camaraderie and unchanging sense of humor are qualities he treasures over the days.  
  
Uhtred does not know exactly what has happened. He does not feel completely himself, but neither does he perceive that feeling of being continually on the edge of an abyss.  
  
It's strange ...  
  
*  
  
Alfred is in front of him. Once again, like all those days, his figure is bent over one of his manuscripts. Uhtred watches his hand bring to life the litany of words that build his kingdom. Secretly, he admires that strength of his own to govern his nation and also to govern himself. A rare quality in men of his time.  
  
Uhtred does not have that ability. He also fights. Against his own mind, his own urges and desires. Unlike Alfred, he loses. He always loses ...  
  
Alfred arouses in him desires that he can now see clearly. He is not just another man. No man has awakened such heartbreaking emotions in him. Such contradictory and deep feelings.  
  
He was determined to forget it. To end their relationship, leaving Wessex once and for all. Fate had other plans. Despite the shared desire. Despite what had already happened. Their relationship had proven to bring misery to both of them.   
  
“You are watching me.” Says the king, suddenly aware of the Danish gaze on himself. He doesn't even look up from the parchment but he has noticed.  
  
Uhtred smirks.  
  
“I do.” He admits without stopping to see him.  
  
Alfred stops his work to finally return his gaze. That tension again. Uhtred shifts his gaze to the door to verify if they are alone.  
  
Suddenly, the king stands up. In his arms he takes two heavy books from the table. With some difficulty, he takes them to one of the neighboring tables when suddenly, a burst of pain interrupts his task. He doesn't drop them, they're too valuable, but for a second he almost did it.  
  
“Lord!” Uhtred stands up, quickly rushing to his side.  
  
“I'm fine.” The king stops him. His eternal pride preventing him from being helped. He places the heavy load on the nearest table and brings his hands to his belly. He lets out the air from his lungs which rises like a small vapor cloud in the cold room. He inhales and exhales slowly.  
  
Uhtred watches him closely, helpless in front of his pain.  
  
“This is God's test for me, Uhtred. God tests my devotion by sending me this disease. For that I must be grateful.”  
  
Uhtred will never be able to understand that logic. A silent sorrow, which he is unable to locate, nestles in his chest.  
  
“Your God has a curious way of rewarding his devotees.” He thinks aloud and for a second, fears being fired from the place. The king watches him a little more relax, his hand tracing small circles over his stomach. The pain giving way little by little.  
  
“It is God, Uhtred.”He remarks as a tired teacher to a child who has forgotten to learn his lesson. “There is only one, do not forget.”  
  
Alfred arranges the books on the table. Uhtred watches him closely. His smooth features, the gentleness of his hands brushing the cover of the volumes. Those hands he has had in his days ago. They have support him in his emotional collapse. They have caressed him so many months ago in the humid lands of Somerset ..  
  
At that moment, Uhtred feels the unstoppable desire to touch him again.  
  
His hand brushes against the monarch's even before he can rationally think the logic of his actions. Alfred freezes at the exact moment their skins make contact. The outstretched hand, halfway between continuing the action and stopping.  
  
Uhtred fears. When he fully understands what he does, he fears that the king will reject him. That would be his logical action.

But he does not. Alfred does not reject him. The warmth he feels every time he shares a moment of peace with the king is present again in his body.  
  
Now, he understands that his days are no longer gray because of him. That despite knowing that they can't, that they shouldn't ..  
  
Alfred has behaved gently. He has helped him, has comforted him and has tolerated even that small gesture of affection that they share at that moment.  
  
He knows he shouldn't ask for more. That he tempts luck, that their relationship is too volatile and that everything can be ruined at any moment. He knows.  
  
But he has never been a man capable of governing himself.  
  
So he grabs him. He holds his wrist, turning his body to face him. It was a sudden movement. A movement that is too similar to their first encounter. Alfred remains impassive, as if in a way he always expected unpredictability in him. As if somehow, despite the fact that his words denounced not being able to understand him, deep down he was always capable of doing it. Uhtred desires him for this.  
  
He wants to kiss him hard. Kiss him and remove doubts, fears and insecurities about him. He wants to kiss him and be able to burn in his body that he is his, that in one way or another always will be, that he had wanted to escape his destiny and could not, that he would never betray him.  
  
Alfred holds his gaze. Challenge. Uhtred sees this in him. Sees the king's desire desperately try to hide behind that cloak of provocation.  
  
Uthred smiles. Finally, he feels like himself.  
  
He feels alive after long months, after so much struggle.  
  
He feels an indomitable energy, a renewed passion. Hope fills each of his senses and does not let him think clearly.  
  
This is possible. Really possible. Alfred is there with him, defiant, longing for what will happen. It is clear in his gaze, in the disposition of his body. Despite everything, he also wants him. They could do it, if they were cautious enough, if they kept the secret jealously guarded from others...  
  
“Uhtred.”The lips of the king brush his own mouth. They are close, very close.  
  
But never close enough.

Fear. It is fear which stains the words of the king who has always shown himself to be so confident. That makes him hold back. Fear should not be the prevailing feeling at that moment. Alfred is there with him. He shouldn't fear anything if he's there to protect him. His thoughts are frantic and irrational.  
  
Alfred puts distance between them. Every inch between the two feels like a void and Uhtred can feel as if his hope is beginning to tear apart.  
  
Alfred tilts his gaze when he speaks. Uhtred perceives the words but does not hear them. Not really. An unpleasant vertigo is present in him again and suddenly it is as if all his supposedly overcome ailments returned with renewed force mocking his stupid feeling of improvement.  
  
 _Wessex needs your sword, Uhtred._  
  
His mind is suddenly able to process the king's words. A horrible revelation is suddenly present in him.  
  
“I can not do it. I can't stay in Wessex. It is not my destiny” He hears himself answer, more out of habit than out of real conviction. Inside he begs. He asks the gods that his deepest fears are not real..

Until he hears it. Finally he hears it and can no longer hide.  
  
“I saved you Uhtred.”

Alfred says it with a coldness that is comparable to the room in which they are. 

“I saved you and made you become a warrior again. You owe me these favors. I ask for your service in exchange for them.”  
  
And that's it.  
  
For long seconds Uhtred says nothing. Just looks at Alfred. He really looks at him, as if he were a stranger standing in front of him. That person is not the man with whom he has shared so many nights writing ridiculous letters. Who has assisted him with his own hands to reduce his tremors. He is not the one who has embraced him despite being wrong. He is not who has comfort him until then.  
  
His Alfred wouldn't do that to him. He would not use those strategies just for the sake of his kingdom. He wouldn't play with his feeling that way. The man he loves would care about his well-being, he would not be a mere tool, he would not be disposable. But ..  
  
Of course.  
  
It is instantaneous. That mist that seemed to interpose like a barrier between him and his emotions swallows him whole again. He can no longer connect with what is happening to him, as if somehow he is underwater, his feelings are diffuse. It is a blessing. The pain would otherwise be excruciating.  
  
Suddenly, it is as if his past spits in his face. The days in Somerset are a mirage, the night they had eachother a horrible mistake, the looks, the half-smiles, their quiet conversations when they were alone...  
  
All that is hidden by that mist revealing another reality. The reality of Alfred's manipulations, of his deep suspicion of him, of his permanent inability to accept him as he was.

Now he remembered it.  
  
Alfred had never discussed the Bebbanburg issue with him, despite knowing the profound importance of reclaiming his birthplace for him, the subject had never been touched upon. Despite his many sacrifices, having risked his life over and over again to satisfy him...  
  
Then he was gone. He had decided to abandon his service. He had decided to leave the man who aroused so many emotions in him. That fueled his passion to please him, to perform titanic tasks that he did not believe himself capable. That raised his ego but at the same time generated terrible emotional battles.  
  
He loved him. He accepted it. There was no other possible explanation. He couldn't choose to lie to himself like Alfred certainly did.  
  
But that love hurt him to the same extent that he was passionate about it. It was too heartbreaking, too terrible- Sharing the same space as the king and hold onto the crumbs of affection. A slight smile, a sign of approval, a look that lasted a little longer than it should.

  
It was too little to put out the fire that corroded him by remembering and reproducing in his mind what they had experienced. Imagining what he wanted to do with him every time his dignified and noble figure appeared in his court.  
  
It was torture.  
  
Upon leaving Winchester, Uhtred had chosen himself. He had chosen his sanity. But then he had been enslaved, then the sea and Halig. Halig's death.  
  
Now he understood how naive it had been to try to hold onto the memories of the king for so long, to try to reproduce the memories of his body heat on the cold days in Iceland.  
  
He understood his terror, his reluctance, the instability of his body as he faced the King of Wessex again.  
  
For a moment, he had forgotten how dangerous Alfred really could be.  
  
 _A quill can be as sharp as a sword._  
  
He didn't even need whips or blows to destroy him. Only his words.  
  
He had been stupid to believe that he had found support in him. That he could trust. That he loved him enough to not to force him into another slavery situation. 

He had been deeply mistaken.  
  
Uhtred dropped to his knees. Recite the words of his renewed vow. Alfred is only a few centimeters away, but it wouldn't matter if he were in another continent. Far. Inaccessible. Unreachable  
  
In a moment of revelation, Uhtred understands a terrifying truth. The logic of the Christian God is made clear in his mind.  
  
"I have been responsible for Halig's death." He verbalizes his thoughts out loud.  
  
He is still on his knees, his voice is a trembling whisper.  
  
“Serve you is my punishment for that.”  
  
*  
  
Alfred watches him without letting his expression betray any of his feelings. His belly burns with his own emotional discomfort. But he endures it.  
  
He does not want this. He does not want to be part of those who have broken him.  
  
But he is.  
  
The king nods pleased. He has done his job well. His kingdom will be safe once again. As a person, however, Alfred feels an anguish rarely experienced. The dissociation between what he is and what he must be, becoming infinitely large.  
  
He watches Uhtred leave and for an irrational second he feels his name on his lips. Did he pronounce it or was it just a hallucination? He won't know. Uhtred leaves the room without looking back.  
  
Alfred spends the rest of the night there. His fingers running over the last letter written by the Danish. His sloppy handwriting. The hesitant but perfectly legible words. A few lines.   
  
When the fire goes out, he does not stoke it. When the candles are extinguished, he does not call the servants to relight them. He just stands there, in the cold and the dark.  
  
End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are responsible for our emotional well-being. A couple may or may not help in a healing process, but in no way can save us from our own demons. Mental health is an individual job.


End file.
